Monday I was at the table d'hôte the first time for a week. I found the
count seated next to Miss St. Clair. It was very simple, she explained
to me afterward. A lady occupied his seat one day, and he came round to
the only vacant one, which happened to be next hers. I am a very
guileless person, but I think Vincenzo had an excellent reason for
letting it happen. Helen was on my left hand as usual, and the Italian
marquis on my right.

"I am sorry for that boy," said he to me: "he is very unhappy."

"The young count? What is the matter?"

"Don't you see? He is madly in love with your bewitching little
American. It is his first impression, and he takes it hard. Well, he
will have to learn like the rest of us."

"I hope you are mistaken;" and I glanced uneasily at my young neighbors,
who were too much absorbed in their own conversation to heed that
between the marquis and myself.

"That is impossible. He raves to me about her. It is very pretty too--a
perfect idyl, all poetry and romance--eternal, unchangeable, and all
that boyish nonsense. We older men know better. But monsignore will be
here soon, and he will look after him."

"Who is monsignore?"

"The archbishop of Toledo, his guardian. He has been here, but some
diocesan matter called him home. He will be back anon, and then the